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Chapter Text

Charles

Hank and I bask in the light of each other’s smiles as we conclude our card game.

Hank lifts his eyebrows at me. “One more game?”

“No, I think I’m all right.”

“Oh, come on…”

I give him a tired grin. “I’d fall asleep in the middle of it.”

“That would mean I’d win.”

I scoff. “Then definitely not.”

Hank slides the deck of cards back into the package. “Are you going right to bed then?”

“No, not quite. I was planning,” I snatch the TV remote from the coffee table, “to maybe put something on if you’d like to stay down here with me.”

Hank checks his watch.

“You got somewhere to be?”

“No, I just… I’ve been working on a certain project with Kurt and it’s something that needs to sit. I want to make sure I catch it in the correct window of time.”

I begin flipping through channels. “Kurt? Science?”

“He’s actually taken to the sciences. He’s quite good at it. I might be getting a new student if his enthusiasm continues.”

“Do you still have enough room in your class?”

“There are a few more spots left. But since the school year just started, they’ll probably fill up fast as registration gets finalized.”

I hum in answer, juggling through TV channels. They bounce by, one after the other, and my finger follows the monotonous pattern of clicking, clicking, clicking.

I start another conversation. “Did Jubilee get into your class?”

Clicking, clicking.

“Yes, she did. She’s showing promise already.”

Clicking, clicking.

“So she’s doing all right? Last time I talked with her, she seemed a bit doubtful about her next semester.”

Clicking, clicking.

“Yes, she’s been– .”

The word mutant flashes on the screen of a news report. I stop immediately and flip back to it. The headline reads: A homeless facility attacked by a mob of mutant protestors.

My heart stops.

What?

I turn up the volume just as the grim reporter starts talking.

“At 3AM this morning, a homeless facility in a small pocket of Westchester County, New York, was attacked.”

Westchester County. That’s where we are.

“Locals were left scared and confused when gunshots went off in the darkness. This was, in fact, a mutant protest group that had gotten word of the mass population of homeless mutants seeking shelter at a particular facility. They acted quickly, and the facility was shot up this morning under the cover of darkness.”

My breath catches in my throat. I hear a faint gasp from Hank beside me.

“So far, twenty-one have been been confirmed dead. Thirty-four were injured with eight of them in critical condition. It was clear that mutants were targeted, as eighteen of the twenty-one deaths were of mutantkind.”

A surge of nausea combined with a powerful dizzy spell has me clutching the arms of my chair.

“No members of the protest group were found. They scattered and have not been seen or heard from since the attack.”

The report cycles through pictures. Windows shattered, bullet holes in the walls, patches of blood on the ground, on the beds, the sheets, the bags, the tables…

“The protest group left evidence of their beliefs in the forms of signs and flyers that they tacked and posted everywhere on the outer walls of the facility.”

A photo of two signs pop up on the TV with slogans in red letters. One of them reads, ‘Normal And Proud,’ and the other says, ‘Crawl Back To Hell Where You Belong.’

“They were very clear in their opinions and views on these creatures, and in light of recent events, the growing uncertainty and fear regarding mutants has the public wondering: should mutants even be allowed in society given what sort of violent acts they attract? Though heinous, were the shooters somewhat justified in their belief that mutants have no place among us?”

I’m dimly aware that my breath is coming in quick, short bursts. My nails are working on each other, digging into the skin of my fingers.

The reporter continues. “This massive shooting has caused unrest in the community, and many are now fearful of the existence of mutants in our immediate surroundings. If mutants are being targeted just by existing, what does that mean for the rest of the world? In the controversy that is mutantkind’s existence, how many more innocents will get caught in the crossfire? How many more have to die just for the sake of extermination? What happens if– ?”

The TV shuts off. I blink a few times to bring myself back into the present, but the present is not much better given that I’m hyperventilating and holding the arms of my chair in a white-handed grip.

Innocents. So mutants are considered guilty just by…just by what, existing?

Extermination. We’re not some disgusting breed of insect that needs to be flushed out.

No place among us? Are you fucking kidding me?

And who’s us? The ‘normal’ people? And–

The school. Oh, God, the school. The students, the children.

The protest group is still out there. What if they come here?

They won’t, right?

Extermination. Controversy. Unrest.

They might. They could. They might.

The kids. No, no, no, I have to protect them. I can’t let them die, they’re all so young, they’re–

“Charles, you’re okay. Try to breathe.”

Hank’s concerned face swerves into focus in front of me. His hands are on mine.

“That’s it. Focus on me. Breathe.”

My heart drums against my ribcage like it’s trying to explode out of my chest and there’s a sharp pain in my chest and running down my back.

Hank kneels in front of me, silhouetted against the fire, but even when he’s backlit, I can see his furrowed brow. He holds the remote in his hand.

Oh. He’s the one who turned the TV off.

The TV. The news. Shooting. Mutants. Twenty-one dead, eighteen mutants. Normal and Proud. My head is spinning. Extermination. Extermination.

A firm hand grips my shoulder. “Okay, no, Charles, look at me.”

I snap to attention, a sob catching in my throat. I’m breathing so fast that it’s making me dizzy.

Extermination. Extermination.

Hank looks me dead in the eye. “Listen to me: You’re okay. I know it’s been a while since you’ve had one, but remember what we’ve worked on. You know what to do.”

I do?

Robotically, I find myself pushing a hand down against my chest right over where the pain is worst.

Oh, I guess I do.

“That’s it. You got it. Now breathe.”

I obey, breathing in, holding it…

“Let it out.”

The breath spills out of me like a balloon being popped. I grimace at the end of it, gritting my teeth against another sob. I will not cry, not this time.

“Do it again. Come on.”

I repeat the exercise a few times, by the fourth time, I’m significantly calmer. Breathing comes easier, I’m not shaking as hard. My vision is clear enough that I can see the fingerprint smudges on Hank’s glasses. 

He stands up. “Look, I’ll watch the internet. I’ll monitor any protest activity and I’ll let you know if I find anything worth acting on.”

“I’ll look with you.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“But I– !”

“Charles, no. I know you’ve been pretty stable for a while, but this is something that you might have to distance yourself from, at least for the time being. If something needs to change, I will let you know. But for right now, I think it’s best if you stay out of it.”

“I can handle it.”

“Honestly, I don’t think you can. I know you’re in a much better place and I’m very glad about that, but it doesn’t change the fact that you still get a lot of anxiety over stuff like this.”

“It’s not that bad.”

Hank’s eyebrows shoot upward and he scoffs. “Charles, you literally have a panic disorder. And Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Not that bad, my ass.”

I scowl. “It’s better than it was!”

“Okay, yes, BUT just because it’s been a few months since you had an attack doesn’t mean it magically goes away.”

I stare into my lap. “That would be nice.”

“Yes, it would. But that’s not realistic, is it?”

I say nothing.

“Is it?”

My finger taps restlessly against my leg. “No.”

“Right.”

I glance up at him.

“So, like I said, I’ll keep an eye on the news. You stay off of it.”

I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. One image enters my brain, an imagined future where the school is burning and the yards are littered with piles of young bodies. Scott, Jubilee, Kurt, Jean…

I inhale sharply and my next breath out trembles. Pain prickles around my fingertips and I pinch the bridge of my nose as another surge of panic lessens my grip on reality.

“Are you gonna have another one?”

I shake my head, trying to guide myself through long, deep breaths.

“Really? ‘Cause you’ve been picking at your fingers for the last ten minutes.”

Frowning, I pull my hand away from my face to find blood drying on my throbbing fingertips and bits of skin under my nails. Shit. Haven’t done that in while.

Regardless of the situation, I force myself to nod, wiping my nails off on my pants. “I’m all right.”

“Are you sure? Because I can go upstairs and grab your emergency meds, it’s not– .”

“I’m sure.” After a pause, I add, “Thank you, Hank.”

I’m met with a nod.

“What time is it?”

He checks his watch. “About nine. You have the eight AM class tomorrow. You should get some sleep.”

I work my jaw. “I’ll try.”

Hank pats my on the shoulder. “I need to go check on the science project. Are you all right down here by yourself?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Don’t let me stop you.”

Hank nods. “Okay, if you’re sure. But I’ll be in the lab. If you need me,” he taps his temple a few times, “just holler. I’m only a thought away.”

I smirk. “That you are, my friend.”

Chapter Text

Charles

I don’t get to sleep until close to one AM because I did exactly what I told Hank I wouldn’t do. Despite knowing what it would do to me, I couldn’t help but poke around on the internet. Besides, if it will equip me with knowledge that will help me protect my students, I have to educate myself.

Great idea in my head. Terrible idea when executed.

I shut the computer when my hands start tingling, but I’m able to drop off to sleep before it gets too bad. I guess my body had been holding back, keeping it subdued until the worst possible moment to explode.

I jerk awake at 2:34 AM in a puddle of sweat, choking on every breath. My head feels like it’s splitting down the middle and cold tears leak from my itchy eyes. I struggle to a sitting position, and I don’t know if it’s because I moved or because now I’m fully awake, but the sobs hit me like a kick to the chest. I double over, hugging my stomach as I’m wracked with full-body sobs to a point where every muscles is aching just from the crying alone.

Eventually, I conclude through the panicked fog that this is probably bad enough to warrant taking my emergency mediation. When I can suck in a breath for just a single fucking second, I half-sit, half-fall into my wheelchair and make my way out of my room. Regardless of how badly I’m shaking, I try to make as little noise as humanly possible. I get into the elevator and punch in the button to the main floor. My gasping echoes, filling the small space with the frenzied weight of my panic, and I brace myself against the wall.

The elevator door opens and I speed through the halls into the kitchen. I make a beeline for the medicine cabinet and hunt feverishly for the bottle, shoving other things aside in my search. Then–

There. Xanax.

I seize the bottle, fill up a glass of water, and take two pills. Once I’ve taken them, I plunk the glass onto the table, gasping out sobs. However torturous it is, waiting is the only option for me right now. I’ve done all I can, I just have to wait for the meds to kick in.

It’s no wonder I have a fucking panic disorder when my body pulls shit like this.

I lean forward and drop my forehead onto the table, and even though I shouldn’t, I let my nails tear up my fingers, shredding my bleeding skin and opening fresh scabs. The pain helps. It shouldn’t, but it does.

Hank

My alarm goes off at six AM. I snooze it once, and when it goes off a second time, I drag myself out of bed and throw on a T-shirt, jeans, and a freshly-washed cardigan. I don’t have a class to teach until ten, but I like to start the day early. If I sleep past seven or eight, I’m sluggish the entire day, and at least on a school day, I can’t afford that.

Yawning, I stroll through the quiet mansion filled with sleeping students. The sun is just starting to rise, and I see the beginnings of the daylight peeking through the window blinds. Despite the unrest happening throughout Westchester right now with the mutant protest group, the sun still brings about the same energy. I let its warmth energize me. I’ll need it today.

My head swims with fantasies of coffee, I turn the corner and enter the kitchen. I expect to find a quiet, empty room. I don’t expect to find Charles slumped at the table, asleep in his wheelchair. A worm of unease squirms in my stomach and I quicken my pace. I reach his side and put a hand on his shoulder. “Charles?”

His eyebrows twitch.

I shake him this time. “Charles, wake up.”

This time, his eyes slide open. He blinks groggily up at me. “Oh, hi…”

“What are you doing out here? How long have you been down here?”

“Since, uh…maybe three in the morning.”

I narrow my eyes and I’m about to demand an explanation when I spot a pill bottle on the table. Upon further scrutiny, I see that it’s Xanax and I face Charles with a concerned frown. “Did you have another attack last night?”

“Um…yeah.”

I work my jaw, trying not to let my worry show. “Okay. What did you do about it?”

“I freaked out. Took Xanax. Freaked out some more. Finally fell asleep.”

“At the table?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“That doesn’t seem comfortable.”

Charles shrugs. “I’m just relieved I was able to get back to sleep at all.” He lifts a hand to rub his eyes. “Sometimes I– .”

My heart skips a beat. “Whoa, WHOA.” 

His fingertips are coated in dark red. Without even caring to ask, I grab his hand and bring it toward me. He’s been picking at his skin again, but they’re not only crusted with dried blood. This time, there are red gouges all over his fingers, chunks of skin carved out by his own hand, and his nails are smeared with blood as well, evidence of the countless minutes he probably spent scratching his own skin raw. The sight makes me nauseous.

I finally look back up at Charles, who’s looking back with a sort of muted guilt on his face. I purse my lips, trying to decide whether to be angry or sympathize with him. “Give me your other hand.”

“Hank, I– .”

“OTHER HAND, Charles!”

Well, then. I guess I’m choosing angry.

Charles brings his other hand out from under the table, and it looks the exact same. Both sets of fingers are covered in tiny wounds, which are clogged up with congealed blood.

I sigh, trying to keep my temper from raging out of control. “I thought I told you to get me if you needed me.”

“It was three AM and I didn’t want– .”

“I don’t care about the time! I would rather be bothered in the middle of the night than wake up to this!” I nod to his shredded, bloody fingers.

Charles averts his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Okay, be honest with me.” I gesture to his fingers. “Do you do this on purpose?”

“No.”

“Really? You’re being honest?”

“Yes. I don’t even realize I’m doing it half the time. It’s just another anxious tic.”

“It’s not just a tic, Charles, it’s physically hurting you. It’s grown into something worse.” I get to my feet and grab both his normal meds and the wipes from the cupboard. “Let’s clean you up.”

Charles doesn’t object as I meticulously rub the blood from his fingers. Occasionally, he winces when the wipe snags at a piece of loose skin, but he keeps quiet nonetheless. Once I’m done, I withdraw and glance at my watch. “You’ve got a little over an hour and a half until your first class. What are you gonna do until then?”

“I don’t know.”

“You need to think of something to do. I don’t want you wallowing for two hours.”

Charles thinks about it for a moment. “I’ll go down to the library and read.”

“Perfect.”

Charles takes his normal meds, backs up from the table, and reaches for the Xanax bottle to put it away.

I grab it before he can. “I’ll get it. Go take care of yourself.”

Charles stares at me, as if debating whether or not to argue. Eventually though, he breaks eye contact and wheels himself towards the exit. “Thanks, Hank.”

“Of course. Anytime.”

And with that, he’s gone.

I take a deep breath, trying to help myself calm down. While yes, all the crazy news about that protest group is bad, I think I might be more worried about Charles and his reaction to it than anything else. He may be a lot better than he was, but that doesn’t mean that it can’t flare up. And I’m anticipating this being a massive hurdle. It already has been, and the distant crunch of worry in my gut reminds me of all those years I spent by his side as he gave up his life to drugs and drinking. But now, it wouldn’t be his past addictions that would destroy him, it would be his crippling, overwhelming, toxic selflessness.

Charles

The morning goes…fine, I guess. I’m still not feeling one hundred percent, but that’s better than it being so debilitating that it prevents me from even thinking straight.

Class one, class two, lunch break. It’s fine. Maybe occasional tremors in my hands and drifting intrusive thoughts, but not much more. Now that Hank has lectured me about picking at my fingers, I’ve started to notice just how accustomed to it I am. I catch myself doing it at least one or twice every few hours, and sometimes, I’ve already broken skin or torn off scabs before I realize that I’m doing it. At the end of the lunch break, I tie little strips of gauze around my fingers to both prevent myself from picking and then also to hide the blood oozing from the freshly-opened scabs.

The third class comes, drags by, and finally ends. Another successful Tuesday full of classes, the students seem happy and full, and the sun is gleaming in the crisp, blue sky. I wish I could feel their energy. I didn’t eat lunch during break, so I take a few snacks out onto the balcony and sit to eat outside in the autumn breeze. I’ve been in a state of muted anxiety all day, and I can feel the panic buzzing just under the surface.

Every time I start to fall back into my normal rhythm– which includes being happy– the memories of that report pop into my head. I lean against the balcony railing, surveying the hills and forests beyond. There are people out there who consider us monsters, and themselves normal, people who want us gone, who want us dead. They would want this school in ashes and those within it six feet underground. Bodies of children apparently have no bearing on their actions. It’s one thing to create signs about their beliefs, and it’s another thing entirely to act on those beliefs and to stoop so low as to commit homicide.

Extermination. Extermination.

I come back to myself to find that my chest has grown tight and I press a hand over my heart, guiding myself through my breathing exercises. I’m able to calm myself down to an extent, but the entire day, I’ve been riding a dazed high of constant anxiety, and I don’t expect it to stop now.

I ponder my situation for a few minutes. I’m anxious because…I feel out of control, I guess. I want to protect them. My students, the school, everyone and everything. I’m out of my depth because I can only do so much, right? I’m only one person.

Wait.

Lightbulb.

I’m only one person…who also happens to have access to a machine that lets me see the entire world.

A spark of hope flickers in my blood, and for once, I feel some of my anxiety lift. I can find mutants in trouble, I can bring them here, and I can save them. I can survey the world and keep an eye on things, I can be the bird in the sky, looking down.

I have the classes to teach during the day, but maybe I can go away one weekend at a time and fetch more mutants… I’ll figure it out. First, I need Cerebro.

Chapter Text

Charles

I get to Cerebro at around 3PM and I spend the better part of six hours hooked up to it, taking breaks only to drink water. I don’t even eat anything, because how can I when mutants are in need? I get a few sets of coordinates from my lengthy search before the pain in my head forces me to stop. When I finally do pull myself away from Cerebro to retire to my bedroom, I find a handwritten note that says:

Charles

Utilize your support system and take time to breathe. And remember, you’re never a burden. I will help you through as many attacks as you need me to. I am always here.

Hank

Smiling at the kind gesture, I hoist myself into bed. Falling asleep is easy, it’s the staying asleep that’s often difficult.

Wednesday. I build a new routine with anxiety at the helm.

I wake up, teach classes. Lunch break arrives. I don’t eat. Instead I spend the first hour of break scouring the internet for updates, but I end up having to stop when an article about a mutant hate organization in Maryland triggers another attack. It’s relatively tame compared to the one two nights ago, but tame for my anxiety still means being so gripped by panic that I lose the ability to breathe.

I manage to pull myself together enough in time to get ready for the next class. I think Hank notices something off about me guessing by the looks he keeps shooting at me, but I ignore them. The last class of the day ends. My stomach begs for food. I still don’t eat. I head straight down to Cerebro with a bottle of water and hook myself up the machine.

At around four hours in, I either fall asleep or black out. Due the pain in my temples when I come to, I’m inclined to believe the latter.

In total, I count about seven and a half hours that I’m down there, hopping in and out of Cerebro, gathering coordinates and making calculated plans as much as my foggy mind will allow. The halls of the mansion are dark and shadowed when I return upstairs. I can hardly see straight, both from fatigue and pain.

Thursday, similar routine, but more obsessive.

I wake up with a hollow, growling stomach and I shovel some breakfast into myself before immediately heading upstairs to watch the news. No new updates aside from some heated internet chatter and some mutant death threats, which of course, is not ideal, but it’s better than homicide.

Class one. Another random, sudden attack hits me right as class ends and I lock myself in the bathroom just as my anxious nausea kicks in. I turn on the fan to muffle the sounds of me throwing up my breakfast and suffer through the attack as Charles for the ten minutes that I have before Professor X is needed again.

Class two. The panic attack never really went away completely and I spend the entire time trying to quell the shaking in my whole body while simultaneously trying to lead a class discussion about mutant history.

Lunch break. I’m too freaked out to eat anything so I retire to my room to try and take a nap. I get maybe an hour or so of restless sleep, but it gives me enough energy to make it through the third class.

Class three is a blur.

I eat a little bit afterward and take a granola bar along with the water downstairs to Cerebro. The hours drag by in flashing lights and throbbing pains. I definitely pass out again at some point while being hooked up to Cerebro. But all the while, I’m trying to come up with a weekend plan to travel around and take in other mutants, and as much as my head pounds and my nails scratch and my fingers bleed, I can’t stop, I have to save them. If I can, I know I can. I have to.

Hank

The hands on my watch point to 9:30PM. I feel like a worried parent sitting on their porch waiting for their kid to get home from an unsanctioned night out. But this situation isn’t much different. I’ve been seeing Charles deteriorate for the past two days and he always slinks off after the last class. I haven’t seen him before I go to bed, so tonight, I’m forcing myself to stay awake and camp out by his room until he comes up to bed.

My eyes droop and I stifle a yawn. Doing nothing is a fast way to fall asleep. I’ll give it maybe thirty, forty-five minutes more.

I drift off and doze a bit, but I’m woken up twenty minutes later by the deep rumble of an elevator below me. I scramble to my feet and turn to face the elevator door.

Another rumble, a ding. The door slides open and Charles wheels himself out, his skin a chalky-pale color.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Hey.”

Charles jumps, his eyes darting around until they land on me. “Hank? What are you doing out here?”

“Me? What about you? You’ve been disappearing the last few days after class.”

Charles shrugs. “Had things to do.”

“You’ve been going down to Cerebro, haven’t you?”

Charles averts his gaze, working his jaw. “I have to find other mutants, Hank. We can help them.” He flourishes a mini notebook and holds it out to me. “I’ve got dozens of coordinates, so maybe this weekend, we can– .”

“You can’t save everybody, Charles.”

He freezes, his expression hardening into a glare. “We can try.”

“You’re running yourself into the ground.” My gaze flits down to the notebook and I notice that, among the hastily-scribbled numbers are smudges of blood. His fingers have been wrapped in messy gauze. I nod at them. “Show me your hands.”

Charles drops the notebook into his lap. “Hank– .”

“Charles.” I crouch down in front of him so we’re at eye level. “Please. Let me help you.”

After a lengthy stare-down, he gives in and holds his hands out to me.

I take them gently, one at a time, and peel the strips of bloody gauze from his inflamed fingertips. He’s practically skinned them down to the bone. Some of the marks are still actively bleeding. I set my jaw and take a bigger, more conscious breath, turning his hands and angling them to see better in the light.

Charles winces as I unintentionally poke a fresh scab.

“Sorry.”

Charles says nothing.

Eventually, I lay his hands down into his lap. “Charles, you have to stop this.”

“I know.” He turns his hand over a few times, examining it. “I want to, I just– .”

“Not just the picking. All of this. It’s not healthy.”

“I can’t stop, Hank. I need to do this. It’s for the students.”

“You can’t keep saying that! You justify everything by saying it’s for the safety of the school.”

“But that’s because it is! I– .”

“There’s a very fine line between taking precautions and becoming obsessive! You’ve always been inclined toward the latter. And I know you. Which I why I waited two fucking hours out here in the hallway waiting for you to come upstairs so I could confront you.”

Charles’ eyebrows twitch at that last comment.

“I will always help you and support you and I will always try my best. But you have to play a part in that too. It can’t all be me.”

Silence. I can see Charles pondering the weight of my words.

“Think about that. You look tired, so I’m gonna let you get some sleep.” Getting to my feet, I stare down at him. “Are you okay for now?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Good. But if that changes, I’m here.”

Charles nods.

I turn and start to walk away–

“Wait, Hank?”

I stop and pivot around back toward him. “What?”

“I think I should let you know that, this…” He holds out his hands, “I’m…doing it on purpose now.”

I purse my lips. “Okay, and…how long has that been going on?”

“Just today. It’s fine, I-I-I just…figured you should know.”

I’m about to say something but he rushes on:

“It’s not something that… I mean, it’s not… It-it’s not something I want to do, really, but it…grounds me. In a way. So even though I don’t want to do it, sometimes I…think I have to. When I’m really anxious. Or to bring myself back.”

“Bring yourself back? Have you been dissociating again?”

“A little. Nothing too bad.”

I inhale and exhale deeply, trying not to let it show how quickly my stress is increasing. “Okay. Then we’ll work on that.”

Charles stares into his lap like a child who’s just been scolded.

“Hey.” I return to him and kneel down again. “It’s gonna be okay. We’ll take it day by day. Hour by hour. Minute by minute if we have to. But this is just a rough patch. Okay?” I lay a hand on one of his. “Thank you for telling me.”

Charles

Friday starts much the same way. I drag myself out of bed, feeling more shaky and listless than ever due to how little I’ve been eating, and get ready for the day. As I’m getting dressed and prepping my appearance, I put on the news and let the reporters drone on in the background.

I throw on a sweater, a matching blazer, and pick a watch from my cupboard. The time reads 8:56 AM, and the first class is at nine, so I should probably–

“…and the Westchester community is still recovering from last night’s attack.”

My head snaps around like a hawk. I wheel myself toward the TV as the reporter continues her briefing.

“The first attack had been on a public homeless facility, the second one was slightly more intimate. Instead of going for a larger community, the members of the hate group went after a few very specific families in a nearby neighborhood, families who either have mutants members in them, or are all of them mutantkind. No one survived. The first-responders reported eleven casualties in total: five of them parents and the other six being children.”

They show a picture of the crime scene, and although blurred out, the image of the bodies lying there is so visceral that I almost vomit right then and there. At the very least, I get lightheaded and have to shut my eyes against a rush of dizziness.

“What was once a single hate crime has turned into a terrorist movement against the entire mutant species. The hate group has named themselves the Hell’s Angels because, to quote a flyer of theirs, ‘angels of God guide people to heaven, angels of hell drag people into hell, and that’s our job: we’re sending these creatures where the belong.’ They are continuing to strike fast. The authorities are doing everything they can to try and hunt down these oppressors, but with so much of them still remaining unknown, there’s really no guarantee as to what they will do next.”

I catch sight of the clock and– Shit, it’s past nine. I scramble to turn off the TV and try to calm both my breathing and my pounding heart as I make my way to my Psychology class. Maybe throwing myself headfirst into my teaching will help distract me for a time. I need it. I can’t afford to break down in front of the children, they’d never look at me the same way after that.

As I near the classroom, I let Professor X come forward, but in the back of my mind, I can feel Charles still seizing the wheel, fighting for control.

I enter the classroom to find the entire throng of students waiting in their chairs and on their cushions with notebooks, pencils, and textbooks at the ready. “I’m so sorry, children, I got held up. Let’s, uh…” I reach into my lap for my lesson plan which is…not there. I glance down into my lap, my empty lap. I have no reference, no lesson plan, no textbook to read from. SHIT.

I lift my head and force a smile. “Well, I guess I got a late start. I can read minds but not the clock, I suppose.”

The joke lands and the students’ laughter dissolves some of the tension in the room, but not in me. I can feel my mind slipping away, I reign it back by plunging my nails into my palms and letting the pain zap me back to reality. “Anyway, I apologize.” Clearing my throat, I rewind my foggy brain back to the last class. “Let us start with some class discussion like normal. I’d like you all to answer the opening question in your notebooks and then we will dive into a joint discussion. The opening question for today is how would you define psychology?”

I start swiveling around in a lazy circle so I can see all of them as they scribble in their notebooks. I hear the scratch, scratch of the pens and pencils on paper and I let that ground me. My heart still beats out of my chest and I hope to God that they can’t see how hard I’m shaking.

When I notice that the majority of the children have stopped writing, I continue on with the class. “All right, now that you all have had some time to ponder this question, I will open it up to the class. Will someone please read to me what their definition of psychology is?”

Jubilee raises her hand and, when prompted, she dives into her definition. This is the spark that drives the rest of the class discussion, and the students fire ideas and concepts at each other. The conversations flow naturally, like they always do with students as bright as these.

About halfway through the discussion– or maybe not, I can’t tell– my mind checks out of reality and gets swallowed up by my thoughts. I can’t stop picturing the bodies on the screen, the red blood in the picture that was sure to be that of innocents. Mutants who did nothing wrong were murdered simply for existing in our world, a world that doesn’t want them here. Extermination. Extermi–

“Professor?”

I blink and return to reality, but there is a massive pain in my chest and a pressure squeezing my heart. I hold back a wince. Oh, God, not now. Please, please, not now…

The entire class is looking at me and their gazes are like a circle of swords pointed inward. Jean in particular is staring at me expectantly, as if she just asked a question. Maybe she did. Did she? Shit, I wasn’t…

She addresses me directly. “Professor, are you all right?”

“Sorry, love, I…” My body is fighting like hell against me right now, I can tell it wants to crumble and break down so badly. “What did you say?”

“I-I just asked a question.”

“Yes, I’m sorry, I…” I can’t breathe. Shit, shit, shit, not now, not now, please not now. I try to inhale, but the squeezing sensation in my chest makes it difficult, makes it impossible. My eyes prickle with the burn of unshed tears. “I’m sorry, children, if you’ll just…excuse me for a moment.”

I exit the classroom and move out of their line of sight as innocently as possible, but once they’re out of sight, I rush to the farthest bathroom away from my students. I close the door, turn on the fan, run the faucet at the most powerful level, and I don’t even surrender to it, the panic assaults me full force. I crush the front of my shirt in my fist and my chest hits my hand over and over again as I hyperventilate. I know it’s anxiety, it’s panic, that’s all it is, it’s not a heart attack, I’m not dying, but I find myself thinking what if this is the one? What if I’m actually dying this time? No, damn it, I’m definitely dying this time. 

I squint through my tears at the hand clutching the edge of the sink and realize that my fingers are leaving fresh blood on the white counter. In the midst of my sobs, I have another thought:

I need help.

For once, I agree. I project one word out in the mansion to wherever Hank is, hoping that he’s not busy enough to disregard it:

“HELP.”

Chapter Text

Hank

I squint at my computer, trying to read the numbers through the smudges on my glasses. With a sigh, I take my glasses off and begin to clean the lenses with my shirt. I have a bad habit of messing with glasses when I don’t need to, which puts fingerprints on them, which impacts how well I can see in them. It’s not the worst habit to have, but it’s definitely annoying. I breathe on the second lens and am about to start rubbing when–

“HELP.”

I freeze in the middle of scrubbing.

One word. In Charles’ voice.

I scramble to check my watch. 9:18 AM. He’s supposed to be teaching Psychology right now, and if he had to leave…

Shit.

I whip my glasses back onto my face and rush upstairs. If Charles had to leave in the middle of class, it must be really bad, because he will wait and push it down and deny it until he literally can’t function before he’ll leave his students alone.

I enter the main lobby and see a strip of light in a side hallway coming from underneath a door, one of the bathrooms. I don’t even have to wonder if that’s him. I hurry to the door and lift a hand to knock, but I hear panicked breathing from inside. I throw away all formalities and rip open the door to find him wheezing for breath, clutching the side of the sink with torn up fingers, hunched over to a point where his forehead is almost up against the counter.

I shut the door, lock it, then kneel down by him. “Charles, it’s me. You’re gonna be okay.”

When he hears my voice, his sobs get more intense and his shivering worsens. Beads of anxious sweat collect on his crumpled forehead and his eyes are red and swollen from crying.

“Charles?”

His hands find each other and he scrapes at his raw skin with bloody nails.

“Hey, no.” I grab his hands and pull them away from each other. “No, don’t hurt yourself. We talked about this.”

Charles’ nails dig into my skin and I hold back a wince. Sometimes his attacks have a trigger, and sometimes they don’t, but…

The news from this morning. Did he…?

Knowing him, he probably did.

“Charles, you saw the news this morning, didn’t you?”

Charles doesn’t respond verbally, but his nails cut deeper the skin of my hand and I take that as an answer. I remove my hands from his grip and stay there with him, racking my brain for a way to help. For some attacks, it’s easy to know how to help him. Other times, it’s like I forget our routine entirely. I ask him a question to try and distract him in any way I can. “Okay, Charles, how about you tell me about the class? What were you guys talking about?”

No answer.

Charles is still hyperventilating, but his mouth is half open and his eyes stare forward into nothing, foggy and distant like he’s in a daze. The only movement is that he’s driving his nails into his arm, making indents in his sleeves.

I grit my teeth, feeling my own heartbeat accelerate. Shit. A memory from yesterday strikes me:

“Bring yourself back? Have you been dissociating again?”

“A little. Nothing too bad.”

“Okay. Then we’ll work on that.”

Nothing too bad. Sure.

Pushing away my own anxiety, I kick myself into gear and remind myself what I used to do when he dissociated during attacks.

I angle Charles’ wheelchair toward me so I’m facing him more directly. I reach a hand forward and lightly brush my fingers against his, testing out his response to touch. Sometimes he’ll recoil, sometimes he won’t do anything, but he’s told me that when he does nothing, then it can be grounding to be touched. Nothing happens, no flinching or jerking away, so I gently take his hand in mine and keep a firm grip on him, giving his hand an occasional squeeze to help remind him that I’m here.

With my other hand, I reach onto the counter and turn on the diffuser. Citrus-scented vapor flows into the room, permeating the air with a sweet lemon smell.

Back when Charles’ panic attacks were more frequent, I started keeping diffusers in every bathroom since those were his go-to places to escape to wait the attacks out. They’ve helped pull him out of a dissociative episode on multiple occasions, and I’m hoping that they will again.

I turn to Charles, assessing the effect of the diffuser. I just turned it on, so I can’t expect to work right away, but leaving that in the background could potentially help.

The hyperventilating slowly dies down, as does the shaking. Charles is still deep in a dissociative state, his eyes blankly zoned forward. He almost just looks half-asleep, but based on how sluggishly he’s blinking, I’m wouldn’t be surprised if he’s so out of it that he can’t even feel me or my hand or anything right now. A few times, I notice the fingers of his free hand scratching themselves, and I have to stop him before does any damage. Or, any more damage.

I wait. And wait some more.

At one point, there is a slight twitch in Charles’ expression. He blinks a few times with more conscious thought. His eyes flick around the room, taking everything in as if he’s just woken up in a random place.

I rub a thumb against the back of his hand. “Charles?”

He drags his eyes over to me and he focuses, or tries to. I can tell he’s still not all here.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Um… My house.”

“Right. Where in your house?”

“Bathroom.”

“What floor?”

“First floor.”

“Good job. Can you feel my hand?”

“A little bit.”

“Just a little bit?”

He nods. “I’m a bit…numb. Still.”

“Okay, that’s okay. We’ll stay here until you feel better.”

Charles closes his eyes and winces. “I’m…not all here.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

“‘M sorry.”

“No, it’s all right.” I lean back against the wall, still holding his hand. “Can you smell the essential oils?”

Charles pauses. “A bit.”

“Good.”

We let the conversation fade away. Charles’ awareness ebbs and flows, and based on the frequency and speed of his blinking, I can kind of tell where he’s at. That’s the one good thing that came out of all those years I spent looking after him. I know him and his habits and patterns as if they were my own.

After a stretch of long silence that lasts multiple minutes, Charles blinks a few times, faster, harder, and as if he’s been switched on, his eyes clear and his postures straightens. He glances around, gathering his bearings, before lifting his free hand up to rub at his eyes. “Okay, I’m back.”

“Fully? You feel back in your body?”

He nods.

Internally, I collapse in relief. On the outside, I simply push off from the wall and let go of his hand. “How do you feel? Just…in general right now.”

“Tired. Drained. Like I could sleep for a year.”

I smirk. “Fair enough. How are you feeling about going back to class?”

“I don’t really have a choice. I have to go back out there and run the class. I’m the teache– .”

“No, you absolutely have a choice.”

Charles peers over at me from under his dark eyebrows.

“Just because you’re the teacher doesn’t mean you have to completely neglect yourself for the sake of the class. You’re a person, just like them. Why don’t you take a mental health day, or something?”

Charles scoffs. “A mental health day?”

“Okay, how about a Charles needs to stop putting himself at the bottom of his priority list and start caring for himself appropriately day?”

This coaxes a little smile back onto Charles’ face.

“There he is. Smiling feels good, doesn’t it?”

Charles sighs. “What about my class?”

“I can finish it.”

“It’s psychology.”

“Well, then I’ll just assign the homework and let them go early, how about that?”

Charles ponders the statement for a moment, then sighs. “All right, fine.”

“Good. You go upstairs and try to get some sleep. I’ll take care of this.” I unlock the door and poke my head out. “There’s no one around if you want to head upstairs.”

Charles wheels himself out of the room. “Thank you, Hank. I’m…sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just take care of yourself.”

Charles

I mean to get some sleep, I really do. I try for…maybe thirty minutes. I don’t keep track of the time. The prospect of night terrors keeps my eyelids glued open. I am simultaneously wide awake and dead tired, and that combination is making my muscles and bones grind against each other to a point where I’m certain I’m going insane. My mind writhes with images of the murdered families and dead mutants. I’ve already cried enough for today, but my body apparently disagrees. I rip the blankets off me and climb into my wheelchair, not even caring to check my appearance.

I shoot a quick glance at the clock. Almost 10:15. Hank will be in the middle of teaching his class right now, so I won’t be caught. When he finds out that, despite what happened, I’m still going down to Cerebro, it won’t even be a decision for him whether or not to yell at me. There comes a point where he abandons sympathy and lapses into fury, and it typically involves me overworking myself. I know this, and yet I do it anyway. This is something that needs to be done.

I spend an agonizing two hours and fifteen minutes in Cerebro, and when I finally pull the helmet off, my head is throbbing so bad I can barely see. Stabs of pain pierce the spots where the helmet had pressed against my skin, and I’m trembling as I put the contraption back in its place.

When I move toward the exit, my vision spots with white and I have to brace myself for a few moments. I don’t pass out completely, but I definitely lose myself for a second.

I make my way up to the main floor, fighting my body the whole way. I know that I overdid it with Cerebro, I know that I’ve been doing that all week, but how can I stop when there are mutants out there, in danger of being murdered? I can’t lie back and let that happen. I have the power to reach out and stop it, so I’m going to try as hard as I possibly can, and then some.

Is it healthy? Absolutely not.

But is it necessary?

It’s the only thing I’m sure about.

Throughout the majority of teaching Physics class, I manage to focus relatively well, probably because I have hope in light of finding a few new coordinates in Cerebro. I introduce the lesson, lead the class in discussion, then there’s a question and answer session at the end where students can ask questions about a concept, the reading, or a homework assignment. But as the Q&A is beginning, I start to get dizzy, and it’s not the kind of dizziness that comes with my panic attacks, it’s something different. Regardless of this, I shake it off because I’m in the middle of teaching a class and can’t afford to be ill right now.

Jubilee asks a question. The room blurs and she gets fuzzy. I manage to answer the question anyway.

Another student whom I can’t see well enough to name inquires about a few upcoming homework assignments. The throbbing in my head increases, I can barely hear my own voice. I give him an answer nonetheless.

Lights dance in my vision and my head pulses with phantom pain as if I’m still in Cerebro. I’m faintly aware that I’ve stopped talking, and a few muffled voices penetrate the air around me. I try and adjust my position on my wheelchair as if that will fix the problem, but the problem not only persists, it gets worse.

Reality dips and swerves like ocean waves and something warm and thick dribbles from my ears. Then, like a bomb going off, a cacophony of voices flood like ants into my brain.

“Why’s he doing that?”

“Is the Professor okay?”

“Should I say something?”

“Maybe we should get someone.”

“I don’t know what’s going on.”

“He doesn’t look good at all, could this related to what happened earlier?”

“I think we should get someone, he’s– .”

All noises fade at the same time my consciousness does. The last thing I remember doing is toppling forward onto the floor before the dizziness turns to white, which turns to black, which turns to nothing.

Chapter Text

Hank

“How does this look?”

I lean over to observe Kurt’s work. His chemistry experiment bubbles a lovely pink color. “Yes, that looks amazing! Good job.”

Kurt’s face splits into a smile at the compliment. “So I did it right?”

“Looks like it! Students don’t often get it until much later. You’ve got a knack for the sciences, Kurt.”

Kurt’s grin only widens and he snatches his pen to scribble down some notes. “What should I write down for this one?”

I point to the numerical calculations on the computer. “Well, first you should start by recording the data you started with and then from there, describe what happened when you– .”

“Professor!” someone yells from the hallway.

I whirl around.

Jean appears in the doorway, panting as if she had just dashed up a hill. “Something’s wrong with Professor X.”

My blood goes ice-cold. “What? What happened?”

“He just passed out. He’s not waking up.”

I tear off my gloves and throw them on the table. Goddamn it! I sprint upstairs with Kurt and Jean close behind. “Was he acting okay in class?”

“At first it was fine, but then he started trailing off, not finishing sentences, zoning out… Then he stopped talking altogether and just passed out.”

I pelt through the halls and into the classroom where a circle of students are mustered like a flock of birds, looking downward. They step aside as I draw near to reveal Charles’ unconscious body on the ground, and in a flash of memory, I see in my mind’s eye–

Charles, a younger Charles, sprawled on the carpet surrounded by bottles and pills, heart stopped, not breathing, practically, technically, medically DEAD–

I snap myself out of it– this is NOT that– and drop to my knees at Charles’ side, taking his shoulders and shaking him. “Charles!”

I get no answer, and I expect none. I roll him from his side onto his back and his head lolls back onto the wood floor. Red catches my attention and the sunlight shines off the thick trails of blood running from his ears. Even though the flow seems to have mostly stopped, it’s still wet and fresh. I check his pulse. Slow, but there. I fish a mini flashlight out of my pocket and check his eyes. His pupils don’t–

His pupils don’t respond.

In the split second that it takes for me to realize that, my heart jumps into my throat. Shit shit shit shit, what the hell did he do to himself?

I gather him in my arms, transfer him back onto his wheelchair, address the students. “Go to your rooms everyone!”

A few students pipe up:

“Is the Professor gonna be okay?”

“What happened to him?”

“Can we do anything?”

My heart warms a bit around the edges at their compassion. “He’s gonna be fine, I’m gonna take him down to the lab and get him checked out. In the meantime, I need you all to please leave us be for a while.”

Reluctantly, the students all file out of the room, scattering in different directions.

Jean hovers nearby, a devastated look on her face.

“Thank you for getting me, Jean. I’ll take it from here.” I start to wheel him away.

“What happened to him?”

“Burnout, I think. He’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of that.”

Jean nods, satisfied with my answer, and leaves.

I grit my teeth and bring Charles downstairs into the lab. Simmering in my anxiety, I hoist him onto the medical bed, hook him up to the machines and monitors, and do a rapid scan of his brain.

The scan pops up on the computer a few moments later, certain areas in different colors, and the energy bars off the side fluctuate at different speeds. But the alarming thing is that despite their movement, the energies are all relatively low. It’s almost as if his brain is half-asleep, moving in slow motion. I turn to the next page of data, the part that monitors his telepathic brain activity, and there’s nothing. The page may as well be blank.

I toggle between the two pages of data. Burnout, probably, but what about his telepathy?

An idea hits me like a slap across the face. I move to another computer and gather data from Cerebro. Timelines, statistics, everything. And I find that–

Holy shit. Charles has been inside Cerebro for a total of almost twenty-four full hours just in the last four days.

I look over at Charles, appalled. How…how is he still alive? Despite the power of his telepathy and the control he has over it, there are still some days where he can’t be in there for even an hour without passing out. And even then, he’ll be exhausted for a good while afterward. But twenty-four hours? He’s stretched the limits of his telepathy so much that he’s broken it.

A groan from Charles catches my attention and I glance over at him.

His eyebrows twitch and he winces, moaning again. “H-Hank…?”

“Yeah. I’m here.”

He brings a hand up to massage his forehead, grimacing. He doesn’t speak again for a few minutes. When he does, his words slur together. “Can you help me sit up?”

“I’ll raise the back of the bed, but you’re not sitting up on your own. I don’t think you’d be able to hold your own weight right now.”

Charles doesn’t object as I approach him and adjust the bed. As I move it, Charles grunts in pain. When I come around to his side, his face is drained of all color and he’s gripping the railing with pale hands.

“What hurts?”

“Everything,” he croaks. A pause. “What happened?”

“You blacked out in the middle of your class. Jean came to get me.”

“Jean?” Charles opens his eyes and lifts his upper body off the bed. “Is she…” His eyes dilate and flutter shut, and with a pained sigh, he drops back onto the bed, gritting his teeth.

I lay a hand on his shoulder. “Easy. Stay down. Everyone’s fine. Worry about yourself for once.”

Charles’ only response is a groan.

I return to my computers, reloading the data now that he’s awake. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Charles shifting around on the bed. “I said stay down.”

“I-I can’t read you.”

I give him a sidelong glance.

His eyebrows are drawn together. “I can’t read anyone. Why not? What-what happened?”

I turn around to face him fully, leaning back against my table and crossing my arms over my chest. “Okay, so, y’know the movie Finding Nemo?”

“What? What does this– ?”

“Just answer the goddamn question.”

“Okay. Fine. Yes, I know it.”

“Great. So remember when Darla shakes Nemo so hard he passes out?”

Charles purses his lips. “Yeah…?”

“That’s essentially what you did to your brain. You shook it and worked it and abused it so hard that it just shut off and your telepathy went with it. I don’t claim to know everything, but your brain chemistry works differently as a telepath. While the rest of us can get burnt out in the ‘normal’ ways, in some situations, apparently, you can get burnt out telepathically. And as evidenced by,” I gesture to his entire body, “you right now, it can be quite dangerous.”

I don’t hold his gaze and I immediately go back to my research, letting him ponder the information given. Eventually, he asks:

“Will it come back?”

“Probably. I don’t see why it wouldn’t.”

“What do you think it was?”

I scoff and angle my body towards him. “Are you serious? Okay, let’s see.” I count on my fingers. “Sleep deprivation, not eating enough, stress, burnout, your panic attacks getting worse and more frequent, using Cerebro way too much, you refusing time and time again to take care of yourself– !” I run out of breath and give myself a few seconds to catch it. “At first I thought you were running yourself into the ground, but you’ve gone past that, you’re in fucking…China or something. You have to stop. I-I hate seeing you like this.”

Charles frowns. “I don’t know what else to do. I can’t just sit around and do nothing.”

“You’re not doing nothing! Just you being here and teaching these kids puts out a wonderful message!”

“What message?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe that we deserve a place in this world? That we don’t deserve to be eradicated? That we don’t deserve to be killed off with bullets in our heads? That– !”

“Hank,” Charles wheezes, his breath quickening. He presses a hand against his chest and winces.

“Oh, shit. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he gasps, guiding himself through breathing exercises.

Once he’s calm, I let us sit together in the silence before continuing on with my point. “What I’m trying to say is that we’re doing good work here, Charles. This is enough.”

“It’s not enough when there are young mutants out there living in fear. I don’t care what I have to do, but I’m doing something about it.”

“You have to put yourself into consideration too. You matter just as much, you can’t– .”

“No, I don’t. I have the power to change things, so I have to do what I must.”

“But that doesn’t mean you have to destroy yourself for the sake of– !”

“If that’s what it takes, I will!”

I bristle and grab a mirror from the table, shoving in front of his face. “Look at yourself. Do you see someone who’s expendable?”

Silence. Charles gives himself a stare-down. Eventually, he breaks eye contact with himself. “In these situations, yes.”

I have to stop myself from crushing the mirror in my grip. “Of course you do.”

“Hank, I– .”

“This isn’t something new, Charles! I’ve been at your side for half your life and I’ve seen it happen time and time again! God, you’re so fucking selfless and it’s a problem because you are so goddamn stubborn! And when it comes to the safety of others, to yourself, you’re practically nonexistent!”

Charles stares into his lap, his eyes darting around.

“What are you thinking?”

Charles peers up at me for a split second. “I can’t help it.”

“Help what?”

“Worrying about them. About everything.” His hands shake and he clenches them into fists, gritting his teeth. “And thanks to my shitty mental health and my fucking panic disorder, I can’t help but fall apart when this shit happens.”

My face softens. “Charles, just because you have these disorders doesn’t mean you have to be a slave to them.”

A few tears trickle down Charles’ face and he doesn’t make a move to wipe them away.

I step up closer to his side. “Look, I know it’s hard. I know it is. I’ve seen you battle your mental health for twenty years and I’ve seen you at your best and your worst. I’ve…” I break off with a choked laugh. “I’ve seen you on the brink of death, I’ve had to bring you back from the dead. And then I’ve also seen you so happy that you’ve ridden down the ramp of our jet in your wheelchair because you said it reminded you of being on a roller coaster. At this point, there’s nothing I haven’t seen.”

Charles lifts a hand to rub at his eyes.

“Look at me.”

He meets my gaze with one glistening with tears.

“Life is so much more than the darkness in your head.”

Charles chuckles halfheartedly. “It hasn’t felt like that recently.”

“I know it hasn’t. But it’s okay. I can’t expect you to be Professor X all the time.”

When Charles doesn’t answer, I continue on.

“I’m gonna give you something to help you sleep, but you’re going to have to rest. A lot. As in, no getting up at all for at least a day. Probably more.”

Charles sighs, but doesn’t say no. Even if he had, I would’ve forced him into bedrest anyway.

He lies back down and I administer some medication into his IV. After a minute or two, his eyelids droop, he goes limp, and sleep claims him.

Charles

I wake up six hours later to Hank tapping my arm.

“Charles. Charles, wake up.”

I groan at the headache that greets me upon awakening. The bed beneath me shifts and I open my eyes to Hank above me, adjusting my bed. “What’s going on?”

“I have something you’ll want to see.”

He projects a news report onto the TV and my insides shrivel up in anticipation. What horrors are going to be revealed? What did the terrorist group do now?

A picture pops up of a dark-haired man in handcuffs followed by a few others in a similar situation. Handcuffed, furious, held by authorities. A reporter pipes up, narrating the scene.

“As of a few hours ago, The Hell’s Angels have been put to justice. The leader has been captured and arrested along with his followers. Due to a tip from an anonymous bystander, the authorities were able to locate, apprehend, and put behind bars the terrorist group Hell’s Angels.”

It feels like breaking above the surface of the water after sinking and drowning in a deep, dark ocean. It’s the life-giving gasp of air after being held in a chokehold. I feel so light and airy that I could float away like a balloon into the blue sky.

And like I balloon, I pop, and my relief spills out of me, a broken sob flying from my lips. Another one follows it, then another one, and it doesn’t stop. I hold the back of my hand against my mouth in a half-spirited effort to muffle the sounds I’m making, but only half of me cares. The reporter is still talking, but I can’t hear her over my sobs.

Hank’s hand squeezes my shoulder. His voice rumbles by my ear, sounding just as relieved as I feel. “Everything’s okay. We’re all gonna be okay.”

Oh, thank fucking God… Even in the midst of crying my eyes out, I take time to inhale…then exhale. I feel new and fresh and for once, not weighed down by my own anxiety. For once, I can breathe.

I can breathe.

I can breathe!

I can BREATHE!

“You can breathe now, Charles.”